


Stubborn, But Hey! It Could Have Been Worse.

by appetency



Series: Requested Fiction [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, I had the option of writing Badass!Frank of Secret Softie!Frank and guess which I chose, M/M, my smol murder son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 09:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6368860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appetency/pseuds/appetency
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank wasn't sure where he stood with you, but considering all you did for him, he'd guess he was doing an okay job.</p><p>You were, without a doubt, in his number one spot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stubborn, But Hey! It Could Have Been Worse.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt:
> 
> “Could you stop being so damn stubborn and let me help you?” + Frank Castle
> 
> (also wtf even are my titles at this point)

“Let me just try to understand what you’re selling me,” You start with your arms crossed and eyes narrowed – a tell-tale sign that you’re tipping past frustration, and Frank looks up at you from your blood-spotted couch with eyes that try to persuade you that he did nothing wrong, “You got shot and you want to patch it up yourself?”

He nods without meeting your eyes. Red was starting to ooze through his cupped fingers that were covering the wound in his right shoulder. Your lips purse and your hands tighten their clutch on the first-aid box you had taken from its spot. Then you sigh, roll your eyes, and say, “Could you stop being so damn stubborn and let me help you?”

He doesn’t respond, which is good enough for you. You sink to your knees in front of him and start working. You start by grabbing his arm by the wrist and pulling it away from the bullet hole. Frank’s eyes fix on you as you hike his sleeve up.

“You’re only doing this because it’s in my dominant arm,” he grumbles, “You’re lucky I–”

He cuts himself off. God damn it, he almost let it slip, and that would ruin everything. The two of you weren’t even technically together, not as far as he knew. What you had was a very specific niche of the definition of partners. He calls you whenever he needs you, usually late at night, and you come without any complaints and try to help in whatever way you could. Sometimes you give him a brief kiss before you leave.

There’s a part of him, in the depth of his mind that he would never share with anyone, that counts all of his injuries after a job and calculates how much more time you’ll spend with him for each one.

Your hands are soft although firm – he wonders how they would feel when they’re gentler, grazing over his skin – as they stitch up his wound. His gaze moves over your face and down to the sleeve that you had gotten fed up with and cut away. It was laid out on top of his cheap wooden coffee table and on top of it was the bullet that your tweezers had forced out of his arm. He didn’t even flinch as your needle poked in and out of his skin; he had gotten used to stitches, and either way, being shot felt worse.

If he were anyone else, he may have pushed away your hands and engulfed you in his arms, giving you a passionate kiss that would sweep you off your feet. But he was Frank, so he only studies your face in silence and doesn’t say anything when you finish and pack everything away. You tuck the first-aid kit in the drawer of his kitchen cabinet.

(Said drawer is the one that he has saved just for you, where he keeps all of the odds and ends that you forget at his apartment to return to you later. Sometimes he rifles through it just to see the collection of things that remind him of you.)

“Wait,” he stops you just as you’re pulling your coat on. You turn to him and raise your eyebrow, ready to finish buttoning your coat. “Stay. Spend the night,” he says in his low monotone, and then for good measure he adds, “I’m gonna need help with my arm in the morning.”

You slide your coat off of your body and approach him. You can see his throat work and swallow as you kneel in front of him again, more slowly this time, and set your hands by the side of his knees. (Despite his stubborn disposition, you had figured out how he felt about you a long time ago. You knew what you did to him, but for his sake, you refused to make it explicit.)

“Anything you need,” you murmur, and then you lean forward and with one hand holding his chin, you press your lips to his.

Frank finds out in the morning that your hands really are much more pleasant when they’re gentle and tracing circles over his bare chest.


End file.
